


Morning Light, Broken

by slowcookedvig



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, M/M, Post-Quest, Pre-Quest, book canon mostly, during quest, traditional drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowcookedvig/pseuds/slowcookedvig
Summary: Series of ten traditional drabbles (100 words, no more, no less) based on a prompt: "the first thing Frodo sees in the morning -- any morning, any time pre-, during, or post- quest, and his thoughts on the subject." Frodo's POV, third person limited.





	

**Author's Note:**

> An old piece, written in a previous fandom, posted originally to livejournal. I don't even remember what pen name I was using at the time. But I like this.

_Brown._ The curved beams had been polished until the whorls and knots nearly came to life: twisted faces from some tale told over firelight. Frodo stared and stared, but couldn't quite make them out: a dancer playing some strange instrument? An elf-maiden? A miserable creature hiding underground?  
  
The smell of eggs and fresh scones came from somewhere in the kitchen, and Bilbo's voice called him to his first breakfast at home.  
  
Frodo shook aside the ceiling's mysterious stories and climbed out of bed. It was only Bag End, after all: warm and real. The threats were, as always, only imaginary.  
  
*  
  
_Blue._ The quilt was crumpled into a ball beside his head; when he breathed, he could smell it, cotton and wool and soap and something indefinable that meant _home_. From this distance, he could not make out the pattern of intertwined rings, but it was easy to see the ragged tear that Frodo had mended, under Bilbo's careful supervision, with big impatient tweener stitches. Frodo lay in bed, waiting to hear breakfast cooking, but there was no sound but the clatter of tables and chairs being removed from the field outside.  
  
Oh. That explained why the quilt was still damp.  
  
*  
  
_Yellow_. The sheets were the color of butter, and he couldn't remember why he was tangled in them in this odd way, or why the thought made him smile, until he saw the dark spot, still damp. He stretched toward it, then brought his hand to his face and breathed in the musk.  
  
He had just touched his fingertips to his mouth when Sam appeared in the doorway, blushing to his ear tips and holding out a handful of yellow and blue flowers. Frodo reached for the posy and gardener at the same time, and drew them into the bed.  
  
*  
  
_Orange_. It really was the ugliest piece of furniture he had ever seen, Frodo thought as he turned his face from the back of the sofa. Bilbo had managed to acquire some truly dreadful possessions in his many years.  
  
Pippin called from the kitchen, threatening to eat the last of the food if Frodo didn't wake up this instant and help finish the packing.  
  
Frodo stretched and yawned. No, sleeping on this couch had not helped matters, after all. Not even the knowledge that he was leaving this hideous thing to Lobelia could make him forget the journey to come.  
  
*  
  
_Violet_. The clouds were painted gaudy colors by the hidden sunrise. Frodo lay awake, watching through the window as the early winter sky changed from grey to violet to rose and back to grey again. He should be sleeping, he knew; this would be the last night in a bed for, well, perhaps forever. And it was not as if he had to worry over the details; Gandalf and Aragorn were far better at this sort of thing than he could ever hope to be. Frodo had only his memories to pack.  
  
He rolled over and nuzzled Sam to arousal.  
  
*  
  
_Green_. The juniper boughs of the thicket seemed almost brilliant in contrast to the grey rock, grey water, and grey skies of the last few days. Spring might be on its way, but there was little but moss and hard grey berries to hint at it in this place. Even Sam was hard-pressed to find life amongst the rocks. Frodo closed his eyes and thought of Lothlorien, of Rivendell, of the Shire.  
  
Sam stirred and wrapped a solid arm around Frodo's waist, and Frodo lay still, listening to the rapids mock him for the choice he couldn't bear to make.  
  
*  
  
_Indigo_. The water around him was a deep blue that roared in his ears. _Is this what drowning feels like?_ he wondered, and would have floated peacefully, except there was something he was supposed to do, and he struggled to pull himself and his burden to the surface.  
  
A familiar hand stroked his brow and tangled in his hair, and Frodo awoke. Sam's skin looked strangely pale in Hennuth Annun's cascade-filtered moonglow.  
  
Enchanted by wine, safety and midnight half-light, Frodo reached out and urged Sam into the small bed, and clung to the whimpers and moans as to a lifeline.  
  
*  
  
_Red_. He opened his eyes for just a moment, then closed them and hoped the world would simply go away. But it didn't, and still the light bathed the world in blood, or warned of the last setting of the Sun.  
  
So this was how it ended. Not in a quest fulfilled through some impossible twist of fate. Not even in quick, painless death. No, it ended naked, huddled on a bare floor with a cotton-stuffed head and some evil liquid poured down his throat.  
  
He lay back, defeated, and wondered how he could possibly be hearing some distant song.  
  
*  
  
_Black_. For a moment, there was nothing. No filthy rags, no jagged rocks to tear at bloodied feet, no empty water skin, no blazing wheel burning away his mind. It was blessedly empty.  
  
And then he raised his head from where it had been burrowed into Sam's shoulder, and he wished that he hadn't. The Mountain loomed, impossible, above them, and the mere thought of the climb awoke the taunts and promises that made him long to simply disappear.  
  
He buried his head and collapsed into sleep again until Sam's whispered encouragement called him back, for a little while longer.  
  
*  
  
_White_. Even in the morning light filtering through a westward-facing window, the ceiling nearly blinded Frodo with its brightness. But as his eyes grew accustomed to day, Frodo could see that the marble was not really pure; it was shot through with grey streaks and swirls that, if he stared long enough, transformed into other shapes: flames turning to waves.  
  
Sam stirred in his sleep and reached for him, sensing even the merest flicker of his eyes. Frodo lay still a moment, then rolled away.  
  
The waves on the ceiling broke and crashed, but never seemed to reach the shore.


End file.
